It’s a cruel world, especially in winter.
Late summer and autumn are times of plenty. We harvest gardens and fields. We hunt for elk, deer, and game birds, and put meat in the freezer for the winter months. The fall harvest is, truly, reaping the fat of the land.
And then it’s winter, the funnel through which wildlife must go before the renewal of spring. Food is scarce. Spillage from fall harvests has been picked up in the fall months, or been plowed under, or covered with snow. Wild animals are well-equipped to forage for food though with colder temperatures they have to spend much more time eating to take on enough calories to maintain body temperature.
Some animals don’t make it. Death is a fact of life. Of course, nothing in nature goes to waste. A winter-killed deer or pheasant will feed magpies, ravens, and coyotes, just for a start. When bears emerge from hibernation in spring their first job is to roam the mountainsides in search of winterkills for that first big helping of protein after the long winter’s fast.
If winter is a time of hardship it can also be a rude introduction.
Last year, just before Christmas, I went to an area ranch for a pheasant outing. The temperatures were hovering at just a degree or so above zero, though after a week of sub-zero weather, it didn’t feel too bad. The sun was shining and there wasn’t much wind. Flicka, my black Lab, and I dropped into a creek bottom, which had even more shelter from the elements.
We saw pheasant tracks in the snow, though tracks don’t always translate to flushing birds. Some pheasants did get up far ahead of us. On this particular day the pheasants weren’t waiting around long enough for Flicka to go on point.
We finished a circle in the creek bottom, and were heading to the truck for a lunch break when we came on a pitiful sight. Along a fenceline there was a newborn calf on one side of the fence and its mother on the other side. The calf could have been a model for Charlie Russell’s drawing, “Last of the 10,000.” Its feet were caked in ice and the poor little guy could barely move. I helped the calf get through the fence where, hopefully, Mama could mother him up a bit. The cow and calf were on the same side of the fence now, but it was clear the calf needed to get warm if it was going to have a chance at survival.
When I got back to the truck I drove up to the house and told the landowner’s son, home for the holidays, about the calf and where it was.
That evening, the landowner phoned to thank me for alerting them about the calf. The calf spent the afternoon in the kitchen gradually warming up. By evening he was up on his feet and nursing on Mama. It looked like he was going to make it.
I was back at the ranch for a New Year’s Eve day hunt, and after a trek through the willows and cattails, where we put up some pheasants and Huns, I stopped at the house to thank my friends for the opportunity to hunt on the ranch, and then asked how the my calf was doing.
The calf had some residual frostbite damage on his back feet but otherwise was doing fairly well. The calf, it turned out, was a little heifer and they had named it Paula after me. A rare honor.
This fall, I asked, “How is Paula, my calf, doing?” After a long pause, he said, “I’m afraid not too well. That frostbite damage was too severe. She couldn’t get hooves to stay on her feet. We finally had to put her down.”
If winter is a test of survival, it’s truly a rude entry into the world for babies leaving the warm, wet tropical world of a mother’s womb for a frozen, windswept prairie. Some stories, unfortunately, don’t have happy endings.
This week another baby, the year 2010, will arrive. Let’s hope he finds a more hospitable welcome than Paula.
Happy New Year!
Paul Vang's musings about fishing, hunting, and life in the great Montana outdoors.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I Believe in Miracles
A covey of Hungarian partridge took to the air. The flush of Huns always startles me, even when I know they’re around. A moment earlier I had seen them flush and go a short distance, and then saw them running along the edge of an old irrigation ditch. Any hopes that they would settle down and let me get in shotgun range were dashed when they again took off—this time for parts unknown.
I walked back down the hillside where my black Lab, Flicka, was working on another scent. While my back was turned, a larger group of partridge took off. Hungarian partridge, or, more accurately, European gray partridge, frustrate me, and they’ve been doing it for years.
Flicka ignored my frustrations and kept working her scent trail, following it to where the second bunch of Huns had flushed. I assumed she was following partridge scent, so when the cock pheasant flushed from the sagebrush it was a surprise, but not such a surprise that I forgot to shoot. I swung my gun along the bird’s flight path and pulled the trigger, tumbling the pheasant.
Flicka made the retrieve and we continued our hunt. In a frozen, marshy creek bottom, another cock pheasant flushed from a patch of grass, again followed by a shot and a retrieve.
With two handsome, long-tailed pheasant roosters weighting down my vest, we’d had a successful hunt, especially for December.
The pheasants were a happy bonus to the hunt. Spending the chilly winter afternoon following Flicka through the sagebrush and creek bottom would have been enough—a miracle in itself.
Just two weeks earlier, on the day before Thanksgiving, we’d been out on a hunt. We were looking for ducks, and already had one mallard. Our next stop was a tract of public land along a busy highway. While I put on my vest and loaded my shotgun for our walk, a person pulled in at some mailboxes on the other side of the road. Flicka charged across the road to check him out, and then started back to me.
It was one of those things you could see was going to happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it. A car was coming and Flicka was in harm’s way. After the collision Flicka shrieked in pain and surprise, then ran to me on her own power. I knelt down to comfort her, horrified at the encounter, expecting I might have to use my shotgun to end her suffering. After a moment, she settled down and was able to get in the truck without help. She had a bloody gash under her chin, but no other injuries that I could see. The driver of the car had stopped and I had a brief conversation with him. He had a broken grill on his car.
I called my wife and asked her to call our veterinarians and alert them to an incoming emergency, and then hit the road for home. After x-rays and several hours of observation, they sent her home. Aside from the gash on her chin, which the doctor sutured, and a bunch of bruises, Flicka apparently escaped major injury. We’d just have to keep her quiet for a week or so while she healed. We all agreed she was one lucky dog.
And that’s why this afternoon’s outing seemed like a miracle.
This is, of course, a season for miracles. This week we celebrate the miracle of Christmas. Jon Carroll, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and whom I regularly read online, makes it clear that he’s not a religious believer, yet he loves to celebrate Christmas. We celebrate the birth of a child, he says. What’s not to like about Christmas?
My wife and I are churchgoers, and that is where we celebrate the Christmas miracle. This year, though, we have new insights into miracles, when we consider a collision between a 75-pound Labrador retriever and a two-ton car, with the car ending up second best.
Nevertheless, while we believe in miracles, Flicka will be on a leash the next time we stop by that highway.
I walked back down the hillside where my black Lab, Flicka, was working on another scent. While my back was turned, a larger group of partridge took off. Hungarian partridge, or, more accurately, European gray partridge, frustrate me, and they’ve been doing it for years.
Flicka ignored my frustrations and kept working her scent trail, following it to where the second bunch of Huns had flushed. I assumed she was following partridge scent, so when the cock pheasant flushed from the sagebrush it was a surprise, but not such a surprise that I forgot to shoot. I swung my gun along the bird’s flight path and pulled the trigger, tumbling the pheasant.
Flicka made the retrieve and we continued our hunt. In a frozen, marshy creek bottom, another cock pheasant flushed from a patch of grass, again followed by a shot and a retrieve.
With two handsome, long-tailed pheasant roosters weighting down my vest, we’d had a successful hunt, especially for December.
The pheasants were a happy bonus to the hunt. Spending the chilly winter afternoon following Flicka through the sagebrush and creek bottom would have been enough—a miracle in itself.
Just two weeks earlier, on the day before Thanksgiving, we’d been out on a hunt. We were looking for ducks, and already had one mallard. Our next stop was a tract of public land along a busy highway. While I put on my vest and loaded my shotgun for our walk, a person pulled in at some mailboxes on the other side of the road. Flicka charged across the road to check him out, and then started back to me.
It was one of those things you could see was going to happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it. A car was coming and Flicka was in harm’s way. After the collision Flicka shrieked in pain and surprise, then ran to me on her own power. I knelt down to comfort her, horrified at the encounter, expecting I might have to use my shotgun to end her suffering. After a moment, she settled down and was able to get in the truck without help. She had a bloody gash under her chin, but no other injuries that I could see. The driver of the car had stopped and I had a brief conversation with him. He had a broken grill on his car.
I called my wife and asked her to call our veterinarians and alert them to an incoming emergency, and then hit the road for home. After x-rays and several hours of observation, they sent her home. Aside from the gash on her chin, which the doctor sutured, and a bunch of bruises, Flicka apparently escaped major injury. We’d just have to keep her quiet for a week or so while she healed. We all agreed she was one lucky dog.
And that’s why this afternoon’s outing seemed like a miracle.
This is, of course, a season for miracles. This week we celebrate the miracle of Christmas. Jon Carroll, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and whom I regularly read online, makes it clear that he’s not a religious believer, yet he loves to celebrate Christmas. We celebrate the birth of a child, he says. What’s not to like about Christmas?
My wife and I are churchgoers, and that is where we celebrate the Christmas miracle. This year, though, we have new insights into miracles, when we consider a collision between a 75-pound Labrador retriever and a two-ton car, with the car ending up second best.
Nevertheless, while we believe in miracles, Flicka will be on a leash the next time we stop by that highway.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Donna McDonald, an outfitter and guide at Alder, Montana, is running for the title of “Extreme Huntress.”
The Extreme Huntress is a contest sponsored by Tahoe Films, Ltd, a company that produces outdoor adventure films for television, including hunting programs shown on Versus, a cable and satellite outdoor channel. According to the Tahoe Films website, people entered the contest by submitting essays. A panel of judges evaluated the essays to come up with the top ten candidates. The winner of the contest will be selected by online voting at the Tahoe website. The winner of the contest will win a mountain sheep and goat hunt in British Columbia, to be filmed for a TV program, along with a whole raft of merchandise. The entire package is worth over $50,000
Donna McDonald, in her essay, writes about growing up hunting on the Ruby Valley family ranch, which operates a hunting lodge, Upper Canyon Outfitters, as part of the business. She became one of the lodge’s guides and in 1989 became a licensed outfitter, creating quite a stir when she first showed up at outfitter association meetings. She is now president of the Montana Outfitters and Guides Association, and represents the association on a number of government boards, and credits her mother for a belief that, “The passion of the sport has no gender.”
McDonald works hard to preserve the American hunting heritage, and as part of that has worked to develop “Big Hearts under the Big Sky,” a program that offers hunting trips to children with life threatening illnesses, wounded warriors, and women with breast cancer. In her essay, she says she looks to preserve the future of hunting and encourage others to get involved. “I enjoy the peace and harmony with nature; being ethical and excited by the thrill of the hunt, but always respect the animals I intend to take. I hope by example I can encourage more women to become involved in the sport of hunting and the outdoors.”
Ms. McDonald wasn’t available for comment prior to press time, as she was representing her association at a meeting in Reno, Nevada. Her husband (and business partner), Jake McDonald, said he’s proud of both what his wife has done, and what she stands for. “She’s hunted all over the world, but she’s really more concerned about keeping the hunting tradition going. She’s grounded in preserving our wildlife.”
McDonald is in select company, as the finalists’ essays tell many fascinating stories.
A couple of the women are cancer survivors who were not about to let a little illness get in the way of their passion for hunting—or their sense of humor. Renee Zahniser wrote, “I won’t lie…It’s not easy taking down an 18 pound gobbler when you’ve got a drain in your chest…although my friends believe it is easier for me to aim my 12-gauge with one less breast.” She describes how she went on a turkey hunt just three weeks after cancer surgery, suffering side effects of chemotherapy. She has since added open-heart surgery to her list of medical issues, but says, “I have found a hidden reservoir of strength in myself and a renewed love and appreciation for the hunt…”
Sheila Link writes of sixty-plus years of hunting and a love of shooting going back to 1934 when she started shooting tin cans with a .22 rifle. In 1971 she went on a sheep hunt in British Columbia that was filmed for an episode of the old ABC TV series, American Sportsman. She continues, “Elk hunting with my friend Ida is a do-it-yourself affair. We trailer horses into camp, build a corral, and hunt from ‘can till can’t’ every day, alternating horse chores and kitchen duties. We field dress our game and pack out the meat in canvas panniers.” Not too shabby for an 86-year old!
Voting for the Extreme Huntress award began in November and continues through January 1, 2010. To read all the essays in their entirety—and trust me, it’s well worth it—and to cast a vote for your favorite candidate, go to www.tahoefilms.com/poll.php.
The Extreme Huntress is a contest sponsored by Tahoe Films, Ltd, a company that produces outdoor adventure films for television, including hunting programs shown on Versus, a cable and satellite outdoor channel. According to the Tahoe Films website, people entered the contest by submitting essays. A panel of judges evaluated the essays to come up with the top ten candidates. The winner of the contest will be selected by online voting at the Tahoe website. The winner of the contest will win a mountain sheep and goat hunt in British Columbia, to be filmed for a TV program, along with a whole raft of merchandise. The entire package is worth over $50,000
Donna McDonald, in her essay, writes about growing up hunting on the Ruby Valley family ranch, which operates a hunting lodge, Upper Canyon Outfitters, as part of the business. She became one of the lodge’s guides and in 1989 became a licensed outfitter, creating quite a stir when she first showed up at outfitter association meetings. She is now president of the Montana Outfitters and Guides Association, and represents the association on a number of government boards, and credits her mother for a belief that, “The passion of the sport has no gender.”
McDonald works hard to preserve the American hunting heritage, and as part of that has worked to develop “Big Hearts under the Big Sky,” a program that offers hunting trips to children with life threatening illnesses, wounded warriors, and women with breast cancer. In her essay, she says she looks to preserve the future of hunting and encourage others to get involved. “I enjoy the peace and harmony with nature; being ethical and excited by the thrill of the hunt, but always respect the animals I intend to take. I hope by example I can encourage more women to become involved in the sport of hunting and the outdoors.”
Ms. McDonald wasn’t available for comment prior to press time, as she was representing her association at a meeting in Reno, Nevada. Her husband (and business partner), Jake McDonald, said he’s proud of both what his wife has done, and what she stands for. “She’s hunted all over the world, but she’s really more concerned about keeping the hunting tradition going. She’s grounded in preserving our wildlife.”
McDonald is in select company, as the finalists’ essays tell many fascinating stories.
A couple of the women are cancer survivors who were not about to let a little illness get in the way of their passion for hunting—or their sense of humor. Renee Zahniser wrote, “I won’t lie…It’s not easy taking down an 18 pound gobbler when you’ve got a drain in your chest…although my friends believe it is easier for me to aim my 12-gauge with one less breast.” She describes how she went on a turkey hunt just three weeks after cancer surgery, suffering side effects of chemotherapy. She has since added open-heart surgery to her list of medical issues, but says, “I have found a hidden reservoir of strength in myself and a renewed love and appreciation for the hunt…”
Sheila Link writes of sixty-plus years of hunting and a love of shooting going back to 1934 when she started shooting tin cans with a .22 rifle. In 1971 she went on a sheep hunt in British Columbia that was filmed for an episode of the old ABC TV series, American Sportsman. She continues, “Elk hunting with my friend Ida is a do-it-yourself affair. We trailer horses into camp, build a corral, and hunt from ‘can till can’t’ every day, alternating horse chores and kitchen duties. We field dress our game and pack out the meat in canvas panniers.” Not too shabby for an 86-year old!
Voting for the Extreme Huntress award began in November and continues through January 1, 2010. To read all the essays in their entirety—and trust me, it’s well worth it—and to cast a vote for your favorite candidate, go to www.tahoefilms.com/poll.php.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Hunting isn't over yet!
On November 30, my wife was out running some errands and a couple times overheard someone lamenting, “The hunting season is all over.”
It’s one of those good news-bad news deals. Yup, at sundown on November 29, the big game hunting season
did come to a close, except for those who lucked into drawing a bison license.
The good news is as of today, there are still another five weeks of hunting left. So, go ahead and put that ought-six back in the gun cabinet, but keep the shotgun handy, because there’s still a lot of hunting left before we begin that long waiting period until next September.
A first priority might be to take a walk in the mountain foothill aspen thickets in search of ruffed grouse, or other mountain grouse, which includes blue grouse and Franklin (spruce) grouse. Ruffed grouse are one of my hunting passions and I’m planning for at least one more walk for grouse, though finding grouse is a lot more challenging after the hills are covered with a blanket of snow. In any event, the mountain grouse season closes on December 15.
The season for other upland birds, including sharptail grouse, pheasants, Hungarian partridge, and wild turkeys remains open through New Year’s Day. Upland bird hunting gets to be challenging this time of year. Sharptail grouse, for example, bunch up in big coveys out on the open prairie and with all those eyes watching out for danger it’s almost impossible to get within shooting range.
Pheasants are my favorite late season quarry and I’ve had both good days and frustrating days looking for those long-tailed ringnecks. It often seems that pheasants will get bunched up on many of those cold days, and all you’ll see will be pheasants getting up a couple hundred yards ahead. You can watch their flight path, but chances are you’ll never find them on the ground. On the other hand, there are often birds that hang tight in heavy cover. If you have a dog with an educated nose, you may get some good shots. There are no guarantees other than if you stay home you absolutely won’t get any pheasants. If you’re lucky, you may also bump into some Hungarian partridge coveys as a bonus for walking out in the cold December air.
As for turkeys, keep in mind that while there are turkeys in southwest Montana, permits are by drawing only—which happened back in August. Eastern Montana is your best bet for a late season turkey hunt.
The waterfowl season is Montana’s last general season. The duck and goose season will be open until sundown on January 15. Specifically, the duck season ends on January 7 in the Central Flyway portions of Montana. The duck season goes through January 15 in the Pacific Flyway area, and the goose season is open statewide through January 15.
Southwest Montana is, in my opinion, one of Montana’s best-kept secrets for late season duck hunting. With many rivers and streams, along with spring creeks and warm water springs, ducks don’t really have to go much farther south, unless a severe cold snap freezes them shut.
The same goes for geese and it’s rare, when I’m out this time of year, when I don’t see geese flying along our waterways. If I were planning a trip for geese, however, a good bet would be the Yellowstone River in eastern Montana. While traveling through the area, we’ve often seen large numbers of Canada geese, especially in afternoons, when they’re heading out to feed in grain stubble or winter wheat fields. Seeing the many flights of geese in the air almost resembles squadrons of B-17s, heading across the English Channel.
Of course, one of the best spots for finding geese would be almost any golf course in Montana, though things being what they are, hunting usually isn’t an option.
The bottom line is that if you’re suffering from a post-hunting season letdown, the best medicine is to put on some warm clothes, grab a shotgun, and go hunting.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
New Books About the Outdoors
By now, the Thanksgiving turkey is just a fading memory, which means we’re in the heart of the Christmas shopping season. I always like books for Christmas gifts, and so here are a few recently sent out for review.
“Big Burn,” by Timothy Egan, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
In 1910, the largest forest fire in this country’s history swept across the northwest, destroying forests in Montana, Idaho and Washington.
Though the fires took place almost a century ago, the events leading to the fire and its aftermath continue to echo. The book explores the actions of America’s conservation president, Theodore Roosevelt, his close friendship with Gifford Pinchot, the first Chief of the Forest Service, and their battles with the big corporations used to exploiting natural resources. The fires took place after Roosevelt left office, but Roosevelt’s unsuccessful run for the 1912 presidential election spurred legislation that shaped the national forests for the next century.
We also meet some heroes of the fledgling forest service, including Ed Pulaski, who invented the ubiquitous forest firefighting hand tool—and no, he never made any money with it either.
It’s a page-turner with compelling stories of heroism, sacrifice, and political corruption. If you really want to understand today’s forest controversies, you’d be well advised to start with “Big Burn.”
“The Dogged and the Damned,” by Roland Cheek, published by Skyline Publishing.
Roland Cheek is a Montana writer. His book, “The Dogged and the Damned” is a novel based on actual events. It tells the story of Michael Buna, a Butte High School football star and decorated soldier hospitalized in a VA mental hospital in Roseburg, Oregon in the years following WWII. Michael is haunted by memories of the Pacific islands where he fought. In today’s terminology, he has PTSD.
Michael eventually walks away from the hospital and starts to live off the land, including breaking into seasonal homes, causing a widespread panic and a manhunt by a local sheriff. It’s a fascinating tale of recovery and setbacks, along with woods lore.
The author grew up in the Roseburg area at the time of the actual events and was even once jailed by the same sheriff who pursued Michael.
“Barebow! An Archer’s Fair-Chase taking of North America’s Big-Game 29,” by Dennis Dunn, published by Documentary Media.
We often hear about grand slams, especially the Grand Slam of North American Wild Sheep. Getting a grand slam involves a lot: skill, dedication, time and a lot of money. If getting a grand slam is an achievement, contemplate, if you will, taking all 29 of North America’s big game animals—with a bow. I’m not qualified to say what additional challenges it entails, but the author makes it clear that whether he’s used traditional archery equipment or compound bows, he doesn’t use sights with his equipment.
If the prospect of taking all of North America’s big game animals seems daunting, it’s somehow fitting that the book about it is also daunting. It’s a big coffee table book, over 500 double-size pages and weighing in at a hefty nine pounds. I’ve met the author and he jokes about people suggesting, “Heck, put legs on it and use it as a coffee table.” It’s that big. It’s also expensive, at $95, though at just over a buck a pound, you get your money’s worth. In any event, I think it’s a book that fanatic archery hunters, or hunters who dream of an ultimate hunting achievement, would love.
“From Boys to Men of Heart; Hunting as Rite of Passage,” by Randall L. Eaton, published by OWLink Media.
I mentioned this book in last week’s Thanksgiving column. Eaton is a behavioral scientist who has studied hunting and its place in human culture for many years. In this book he explores hunting and, in particular, its role in the growth and maturation of adolescent males.
Make no mistake; this book is not light reading. It’s an academic study, full of notes, bibliography and appendixes. It’s important, however, if you really want to understand why hunting means so much to so many of us.
“Big Burn,” by Timothy Egan, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
In 1910, the largest forest fire in this country’s history swept across the northwest, destroying forests in Montana, Idaho and Washington.
Though the fires took place almost a century ago, the events leading to the fire and its aftermath continue to echo. The book explores the actions of America’s conservation president, Theodore Roosevelt, his close friendship with Gifford Pinchot, the first Chief of the Forest Service, and their battles with the big corporations used to exploiting natural resources. The fires took place after Roosevelt left office, but Roosevelt’s unsuccessful run for the 1912 presidential election spurred legislation that shaped the national forests for the next century.
We also meet some heroes of the fledgling forest service, including Ed Pulaski, who invented the ubiquitous forest firefighting hand tool—and no, he never made any money with it either.
It’s a page-turner with compelling stories of heroism, sacrifice, and political corruption. If you really want to understand today’s forest controversies, you’d be well advised to start with “Big Burn.”
“The Dogged and the Damned,” by Roland Cheek, published by Skyline Publishing.
Roland Cheek is a Montana writer. His book, “The Dogged and the Damned” is a novel based on actual events. It tells the story of Michael Buna, a Butte High School football star and decorated soldier hospitalized in a VA mental hospital in Roseburg, Oregon in the years following WWII. Michael is haunted by memories of the Pacific islands where he fought. In today’s terminology, he has PTSD.
Michael eventually walks away from the hospital and starts to live off the land, including breaking into seasonal homes, causing a widespread panic and a manhunt by a local sheriff. It’s a fascinating tale of recovery and setbacks, along with woods lore.
The author grew up in the Roseburg area at the time of the actual events and was even once jailed by the same sheriff who pursued Michael.
“Barebow! An Archer’s Fair-Chase taking of North America’s Big-Game 29,” by Dennis Dunn, published by Documentary Media.
We often hear about grand slams, especially the Grand Slam of North American Wild Sheep. Getting a grand slam involves a lot: skill, dedication, time and a lot of money. If getting a grand slam is an achievement, contemplate, if you will, taking all 29 of North America’s big game animals—with a bow. I’m not qualified to say what additional challenges it entails, but the author makes it clear that whether he’s used traditional archery equipment or compound bows, he doesn’t use sights with his equipment.
If the prospect of taking all of North America’s big game animals seems daunting, it’s somehow fitting that the book about it is also daunting. It’s a big coffee table book, over 500 double-size pages and weighing in at a hefty nine pounds. I’ve met the author and he jokes about people suggesting, “Heck, put legs on it and use it as a coffee table.” It’s that big. It’s also expensive, at $95, though at just over a buck a pound, you get your money’s worth. In any event, I think it’s a book that fanatic archery hunters, or hunters who dream of an ultimate hunting achievement, would love.
“From Boys to Men of Heart; Hunting as Rite of Passage,” by Randall L. Eaton, published by OWLink Media.
I mentioned this book in last week’s Thanksgiving column. Eaton is a behavioral scientist who has studied hunting and its place in human culture for many years. In this book he explores hunting and, in particular, its role in the growth and maturation of adolescent males.
Make no mistake; this book is not light reading. It’s an academic study, full of notes, bibliography and appendixes. It’s important, however, if you really want to understand why hunting means so much to so many of us.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thanksgiving Day Thoughts
A long-standing tradition among many Native Americans, and European cultures as well, is that when we are hunting, the animal we are supposed to take will offer themselves to us. This concept is explored at some depth in a new book, “From Boys to Men of Heart; Hunting as Rite of Passage,” by Randall L Eaton, a behavioral scientist who has studied hunting for many years (I’ll have more about the book in an upcoming book review column).
Perhaps this notion may strike some of us as primitive to us 21st Century people. On the other hand, after many years of hunting, I would be hard-pressed to dispute the notion, especially when we take a closer look at big game hunting. Regular readers of this column have, no doubt, figured out that my preferred way of hunting is with a shotgun, following a dog across the prairies or mountainsides. Yet on those occasions when I do carry a rifle in search of deer or elk, it’s amazing how often, when I look back over the seasons, the animals I’ve taken have, seemingly, offered themselves.
For example, how else can I explain the big whitetail buck that stood in front of me at the opening minute of the 1983 North Dakota deer season? How else can I explain the few elk I’ve taken that stood patiently out in the open while I fumbled around and got in a position to shoot? Or this month, the whitetail deer that stood still in the middle of a field while I found a fencepost on which to get a solid rest? There is a mystical, but real, connection.
Whether we accept this concept or not, I’m sure many would accept that there is a special bond between us and the animals we hunt. The animals provide food for us and our families. In return, we have the obligation to give thanks for the gifts of life, and, in return, nurture a healthy environment for wildlife.
This week we celebrate the holiday of Thanksgiving. It’s part of an ancient tradition among many cultures to give thanks for a bountiful harvest. We also look back, in this country, to the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony, the survivors of a long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, who suffered from scurvy, malnutrition, and frostbite in their struggles to make a life for themselves in this new world. Without the help of friendly Indians, who themselves had recently lost many people to disease, there may have been far fewer survivors who gathered with their Indian neighbors for that first American Thanksgiving dinner. While they gave thanks for a good harvest, the wild turkey, deer, fish and lobsters on their tables likely meant more to their survival than the meager crops they harvested that first year.
Many things have changed since those long-ago Thanksgiving holidays when, as a child, I did go over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving. For one thing, we’re now the grandparents. In some recent years we’ve been traveling at Thanksgiving, but this week all of our immediate family will be gathering here in Montana.
In addition to our grown children and their spouses, we’ll have grandchildren and pets. A special guest will be Candy, the black Lab who was my hunting partner for many years until she took an early medical retirement and moved to California. She’s nearing the end of her life, now, and seeing her for likely the last time will add a bittersweet note to this family reunion.
Yet, life goes on, and another special guest will be a chubby little chocolate Lab puppy, coming from a farm in North Dakota to Montana in the first leg of her long trip to a new home in California.
Yes, it will be a special Thanksgiving celebration at our house.
And as we celebrate the gifts of family, we’ll also celebrate the many gifts of a generous Creator, and may we never forget that millennia-old bond between us and the animals that provide the food we put on the table.
Perhaps this notion may strike some of us as primitive to us 21st Century people. On the other hand, after many years of hunting, I would be hard-pressed to dispute the notion, especially when we take a closer look at big game hunting. Regular readers of this column have, no doubt, figured out that my preferred way of hunting is with a shotgun, following a dog across the prairies or mountainsides. Yet on those occasions when I do carry a rifle in search of deer or elk, it’s amazing how often, when I look back over the seasons, the animals I’ve taken have, seemingly, offered themselves.
For example, how else can I explain the big whitetail buck that stood in front of me at the opening minute of the 1983 North Dakota deer season? How else can I explain the few elk I’ve taken that stood patiently out in the open while I fumbled around and got in a position to shoot? Or this month, the whitetail deer that stood still in the middle of a field while I found a fencepost on which to get a solid rest? There is a mystical, but real, connection.
Whether we accept this concept or not, I’m sure many would accept that there is a special bond between us and the animals we hunt. The animals provide food for us and our families. In return, we have the obligation to give thanks for the gifts of life, and, in return, nurture a healthy environment for wildlife.
This week we celebrate the holiday of Thanksgiving. It’s part of an ancient tradition among many cultures to give thanks for a bountiful harvest. We also look back, in this country, to the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony, the survivors of a long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, who suffered from scurvy, malnutrition, and frostbite in their struggles to make a life for themselves in this new world. Without the help of friendly Indians, who themselves had recently lost many people to disease, there may have been far fewer survivors who gathered with their Indian neighbors for that first American Thanksgiving dinner. While they gave thanks for a good harvest, the wild turkey, deer, fish and lobsters on their tables likely meant more to their survival than the meager crops they harvested that first year.
Many things have changed since those long-ago Thanksgiving holidays when, as a child, I did go over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving. For one thing, we’re now the grandparents. In some recent years we’ve been traveling at Thanksgiving, but this week all of our immediate family will be gathering here in Montana.
In addition to our grown children and their spouses, we’ll have grandchildren and pets. A special guest will be Candy, the black Lab who was my hunting partner for many years until she took an early medical retirement and moved to California. She’s nearing the end of her life, now, and seeing her for likely the last time will add a bittersweet note to this family reunion.
Yet, life goes on, and another special guest will be a chubby little chocolate Lab puppy, coming from a farm in North Dakota to Montana in the first leg of her long trip to a new home in California.
Yes, it will be a special Thanksgiving celebration at our house.
And as we celebrate the gifts of family, we’ll also celebrate the many gifts of a generous Creator, and may we never forget that millennia-old bond between us and the animals that provide the food we put on the table.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Perfection Happens
Flicka went into the aspens searching for bird scent and a few minutes later went on point. I had to climb up a steep bank at the bottom of the hillside to get behind her, and a moment later, Flicka couldn’t stand it any longer. She lunged at the cone of scent and with a rush of wings the ruffed grouse took to the air.
I took a quick shot at the bird and missed, following with another shot, missing again. As the bird disappeared off into the forest I stood there pulling the trigger of my now empty gun, wishing that the shotgun was a repeater instead of a double barrel, and that I had one more chance at the grouse.
Though I could see I missed, Flicka went off to retrieve the bird. She reluctantly came back after I blew my whistle for her to return. Bless her little Labrador retriever heart, she had confidence in my shooting, even when I knew that my shots missed the mark.
Flicka wanted to get back out in search of the downed bird. “You shot the gun,” her body language seemed to say. “There must be a bird out there, right?” All I could do was apologize.
A little over a week earlier, we were hunting pheasants in North Dakota. Flicka and I were hunting alone that day. The skies were clear with a chilly wind, though a few minutes of walking warmed things up.
The lakeside cover is tough going, with tall weeds and brush. It would be a lot easier to walk in the prairie grasses a little higher up, but pheasants like the nasty cover, so that’s where we hunt. Suddenly a cock pheasant flushes. I swing on the bird and pull the trigger. The bird goes down and Flicka quickly finds it and brings it to me. I take time to smooth the feathers of the bird and admire its bright plumage before putting it in the back of my vest.
We continue our walk, meandering through the brush, tall grasses and other cover. On a hillside where the edge of the Wildlife Management Area borders croplands, we put up a number of hen pheasants plus a couple birds just out of range that might have been roosters. Sometimes it’s hard to pick out those colors when the light is wrong.
Our ramble across the prairie next goes to a thin line of trees. A few years ago a fire had swept across part of the area. After a couple wet years there’s little sign of that fire except for that line of blackened dead trees. Flicka locks up on point and when the pheasant flushes I get an easy shot and Flicka gets an easy retrieve.
Just a couple minutes later Flicka again goes on point next to a clump of brush, a tangle of weeds, tall grass, and fallen tree limbs. When she finally breaks point a cock pheasant takes to the air. While the bird’s flight takes twists and turns through the trees, I stay focused on the bird and when I pull the trigger the bird folds, and Flicka makes the retrieve.
Then it occurs to me that we’ve collected a three-bird limit of pheasants with just three shots. It has been some 55 years since I first ventured out into a field with a shotgun in search of pheasants. In terms of shooting success it has been a long progression since those early years when dropping any flying bird seemed akin to a miracle. Actually, it’s not that long a progression since early September when I went through 12 shells to produce two blue grouse on this season’s first day of hunting.
Over the years, especially the last few decades when one of several Labrador retrievers have been my partner, I’ve gotten limits of pheasants many times, but this was the first time I’ve limited out with firing just three shells.
Wingshooting involves luck, experience, good dog work, shooting skills, and above all, focus. As we remind ourselves in tennis, “Keep your eye on the ball.”
Still I wonder if I’ll ever again summarize a day’s hunt as “Three birds up. Three shots. Three retrieves.”
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